Birthday Pie
by A Lonely God
Summary: Castiel is a klutz.


Castiel is a klutz. He's been a klutz since he became human, and the Winchesters know this to be true, considering the state he was in when he showed up at their front door.

Mostly, he drops things. A lot. Castiel has managed in his time at the bunker to drop three loaded guns, a machete, and several other interestingly dangerous weapons. He's accidentally knocked over shelves of Sam's lore books, nearly destroyed Dean's cellphone by stepping on it, and, worst of all, he's tripped over stones leading out to the Impala and managed to chip the windshield.

Needless to say, human Castiel is a walking disaster. Today, he decides, is one of his worst days. He is standing in the kitchen of the bunker, looking down at his feet in a fit of what certainly looks like pure exasperation.

He is covered in a strange mixture of sugar and pastry. Flour has exploded, and Castiel feels like the puffs of white powder on his clothes give a pretty clear visual of the blast radius he'd incited by, well, dropping the bag. With a great sigh, Castiel wipes his hands on the legs of jeans he's stolen from Dean. He takes a lot of Dean's clothing. It turns out to be rather comfy.

It's snowing outside today, and it is very cold. Sam is out for a run. Why anyone would be out running in below freezing temperatures, Castiel does not know, but he had let Sam go without asking questions. Which is when he'd meandered into the kitchen, blinking blearily against the brightness of the sunrise.

But back to the kitchen. Castiel knows he has more important things to attend to, like how it's January 24th – Dean's birthday. Being more than a little socially inept, Castiel had asked Sam how to properly celebrate such an event.

"I dunno," Sam had said to Castiel upon his approach, "Make him a birthday cake. You know how much Dean appreciates food."

Castiel had pondered Sam's conclusion, still incredibly confused, "I do not understand this tradition of the giving of cake for the anniversary of one's birth. I was under the impression Dean was fond of pie."

Sam had raised his eyebrows at that point, more irritated from being disrupted from his research. He had placed his book on the table and sighed at the fallen angel, "Then make him a birthday pie, Cas."

So he had. Or, at least, he was attempting to. It's all of these things that lead to him standing in front of a flipped over bowl, covered in flour and pastry and soaked in water and eggs. There is a bowl of fresh cherries beside him, pitted and prepared to be made into filling. But there's no pie crust. Because Castiel is wearing it.

Castiel stops wallowing in self-pity when he hears footsteps on the stairs. Probably Dean's. He makes no effort to tidy, mostly because there is no point and because he is too incredibly frustrated about his clumsiness to do much of anything but pout.

"What." Dean says when he walks into the kitchen, "The. Hell."

Dean has never been much for the whole 'cleanliness is next to godliness' routine, but stepping into the kitchen and seeing the walls splattered with bits of pie crust and splashes of flour is enough to make his jaw go slack. For a minute.

Castiel says nothing, but presses his lips together. He parts them again to lick them nervously, and to say to Dean in his gravelly voice, "Happy birthday, Dean."

Dean blinks, and Castiel thinks that maybe he looks a little shocked. He's either forgotten that today is his birthday, or he's still trying to recover from the whole 'kitchen looking like the angels dropped an atomic bomb' thing.

"What?"

Castiel sighs, wipes flour from between the bridge of his nose and his eye, and gestures meekly towards the overturned bowl.

"It is your birthday," He says, pointing at the elder Winchester brother, "I was going to surprise you with a 'birthday pie'. Sam told me that the giving of food is a very important part of the birthday tradition."

There is a silence in the disgustingly dirty kitchen, and Dean, who is still in his bathrobe, looks around again before he can even think about meeting Castiel's gaze again.

The fallen angel is a sight for sore eyes, Dean notices, and he can't help but smile at the fact that Castiel is wearing a black shirt that is white with flour. Castiel notices there is something eerily childish in the eyes of Dean with that smile, and it's a childishness that makes the human happy. He hasn't seen Dean looking so much at peace in such a long time.

"Cas, buddy," Dean says, finally able to articulate a sentence, "You, uh. You didn't have to make me a birthday pie."

Castiel shrugs, "I thought I would make my first celebration as a human memorable."

Dean laughs at that, stepping further into the kitchen and inspecting the mess. It's not something he can make go away before Sam gets back from his run. He sighs, but he doesn't sound irritated or angry. Just tired. Always tired.

"Yeah, well, mark this one down in the history books, man," Dean jokes, "Sam's gonna have an aneurysm."

And that's a joke that goes right over Castiel's head, because he comes back with a worried glance, spewing nonsense, "Does Sam have a history of arterial problems?"

Dean looks at him for a while, blinks, and then sighs, stepping closer to the fallen angel, "Look, Cas. Thanks for the pie. Or the pie crust and flour. Whatever. But I think I'll settle for a beer this time, yeah? Maybe once you learn how to walk without trippin' over your own feet, then we'll talk pie."

Castiel cracks a smile, because this time he knows Dean is trying to be funny. He reaches up and places a hand on Dean's forearm gently.

"Happy birthday, Dean."

* * *

**[an] In honor of my birthday, have something that is not entirely angst. [an]**


End file.
